Introduction

What is The New Yorker? I know it’s a great magazine and that it’s a tremendous source of pleasure in my life. But what exactly is it? This blog’s premise is that The New Yorker is a work of art, as worthy of comment and analysis as, say, Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn.” Each week I review one or more aspects of the magazine’s latest issue. I suppose it’s possible to describe and analyze an entire issue, but I prefer to keep my reviews brief, and so I usually focus on just one or two pieces, to explore in each the signature style of its author. A piece by Nick Paumgarten is not like a piece by Jill Lepore, and neither is like a piece by Ian Frazier. One could not mistake Collins for Seabrook, or Bilger for Galchen, or Mogelson for Kolbert. Each has found a style, and it is that style that I respond to as I read, and want to understand and describe.

Thursday, November 21, 2019

November 11, 2019 Issue


Three pieces in this week’s issue that I enjoyed immensely: Johanna Fateman's “Goings On About Town: Art: Howardena Pindell”; Nick Paumgarten’s “The Symptoms”; and Dan Chiasson’s “Make It Old.” 

Fateman’s note contains a wonderful description of Howardena Pindell’s paintings:

Punctuating the surfaces of these handsome abstractions are seams—fissures, really—bridged by stitches resembling little teeth, and fragments of photographs and postcards. They lend the paint-toughened surfaces a pieced-together fragility and form their swirling and fanning interior structures. The found imagery, emerging from dense areas of acrylic color, includes disembodied hands, a frog, and a statue of Shiva. Neither random nor coherent, the fragments seem to represent the impressionistic puzzle pieces of partial recollection, which the compositions dynamically integrate into a meaningfully illogical whole.

Paumgarten, in his “The Symptoms, writes about three concussions he suffered playing “beer league” hockey. Here’s his description of the first one:

I didn’t lose consciousness, or even my footing. When it was over, I skated away, with a ludicrous grin but without every item of my equipment or all of my wits. I had a sudden headache and a sense already of an alteration in the fabric of the world beyond the confines of my skull. Teammates leered at me. Aluminum rink light glinted off a thicket of surfaces: ice, plexiglass, helmets, sticks. The referee bent to report the infractions to the timekeeper, through a slot in the glass. In the penalty box, I fought the urge to lie down.

That “Aluminum rink light glinted off a thicket of surfaces: ice, plexiglass, helmets, sticks” is excellent.

Chiasson’s piece reviews Charles Wright’s new collection Oblivion Banjo. Chiasson says of Wright’s poetry, 

Within the repetitive cycles of his verse we find the loveliest surprises: an afternoon in the cupola at Emily Dickinson’s house, the appearance of the Hale-Bopp comet, the “sizzle like E.T.’s finger,” the “afternoon undervoices” of kids playing red rover.

Adorning the piece is a delightful portrait of Wright by Tom Bachtell, who for many years illustrated “Goings On About Town.” It’s great to see him back in the magazine. 

Tom Bachtell, "Charles Wright"

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